The Fox, the Cat, and the Boy Who Lied

Old Tomaso the woodcarver lived alone in a room that smelled of pine shavings and glue. He had no children, so he made one. He took a good log of soft wood and carved a boy with quick hands.

The puppet had a pointed nose and a painted smile. “There,” said Tomaso, setting him on the floor. “A fine little fellow.”

The puppet opened his wooden mouth. “Good evening,” he said.

Tomaso dropped his chisel. Then he laughed out loud, a sound that bounced off the rafters. “You can talk!”

“Of course I can talk,” said the puppet. He wiggled his toes, then his knees. He stood up. He walked a few steps. “And I can walk. And I can run.”

“Wait,” said Tomaso, reaching for him. “Wait, little one. You don’t know the world yet.”

But the puppet was already at the door. His feet clattered on the stone like tiny hooves. “I want to see the world!” he called back.

“Come back!” Tomaso shouted. “The road is full of tricks!”

The puppet did not come back. He ran down the lane and did not look behind him. Tomaso stood in the doorway with one hand on the frame and watched until the small figure turned a corner and vanished. The evening air smelled of rain. Somewhere far off a dog was barking, and the puppet’s footsteps went on, quick and light, like someone with no worry at all.

***

A puppet-master named Fire-Eater had a red wagon and a tent that flapped in the wind. He set up in the square of the next town, and the puppet walked in as bold as you like.

“What can you do?” asked Fire-Eater. He had a big black beard and a voice like a drum.

“I can dance,” said the puppet. “I can sing. I can turn somersaults.”

“Show me.”

The puppet danced. He sang. He turned a somersault so high that his wooden heels clicked together in the air. The crowd clapped. Fire-Eater’s eyes grew bright and round.

“You are made of money,” he said. “Stay with me.”

“I would rather go home,” said the puppet.

Fire-Eater reached into a strongbox and pulled out five gold coins. They shone like little suns in his fat palm.

“Take these,” he said. “Go home to your woodcarver. But come back tomorrow and work for me, and there will be five more.”

The puppet had never held gold before. It was cold and heavy. He put the coins in his pocket and walked out of town along a road lined with tall grass.

Before long he heard a tap, tap, tap behind him. A fox was limping along on three legs, with a quiet grey cat walking beside him. The fox lifted his hat.

“Good evening, young sir,” he said politely. “You look like a boy with a bright future.”

“I have five gold coins,” said the puppet, because he could not help himself.

The cat said nothing. The cat only smiled, and licked one white paw.

“Five coins,” said the fox. “And what will you do with them?”

“Keep them,” said the puppet.

The fox leaned close and lowered his voice. “Then listen. I know a field where coins can be planted. You bury them at night and water them, and by morning a tree grows. A tree hung with gold. You would never need to work again.”

“Truly?” said the puppet.

The cat nodded slowly. “Truly,” said the cat.

“Then take me there,” said the puppet.

“Of course,” said the fox, and he limped forward, and the cat followed, and the three of them walked together into the falling dark.

The road led to a low inn with a red lantern swinging over the door. Inside, the fire was warm and the tables were laid with white cloths. The fox pushed open the door with his nose and limped to the biggest table. “Sit, sit,” he said. “You must be tired and hungry.” The cat slid onto a bench and stared at the kitchen door. A plump innkeeper hurried over. “What will it be, sirs?” she asked. “Bring us your best,” said the fox. “Roast chicken, fresh bread, and honey.” The cat nodded once. “And fish,” said the cat. The innkeeper brought out plates and bowls until the table could not hold another thing. The fox ate with both paws. The cat ate with tiny, neat bites. The boy watched them and felt a little proud to be dining with such fine company. When the last bone was picked clean, the innkeeper came back with the bill. The fox patted his pockets and looked sad. “My friend will pay,” he said. So the puppet counted out his coins on the table. Three went to the innkeeper. That left two. He tied them up in a cloth and put them deep in his pocket. The fox yawned and stretched. “We will leave before dawn,” he said. “Sleep well.” The boy was given a small room under the stairs. He lay on the straw and listened to the wind. Soon his eyes closed. When he woke, the room was grey and cold. He went downstairs. The inn was empty. The fox and the cat were gone. On the table sat a note, and on the note was written: Meet us at the field. Follow the road past the mill. He ran outside. The road was dark and quiet. Far away, a dog barked once and stopped. He started walking.

***

The road went on and on. The moon hid behind the clouds. The boy walked with one hand on his pocket, where the two coins were tied. Then he heard something behind him. Footsteps. Soft, quick footsteps. He turned. Two shapes stood in the road, black against the grey. They wore sacks over their heads, with holes cut for eyes. “Stop,” said one. The voice was low and rough. “Give us your money.” The boy did not stop. He ran. His wooden feet clattered on the stones. Behind him, the two shapes ran too. One of them limped. “Catch him!” hissed the other. They chased him past the mill, past a hedge, past a dead tree. The boy’s breath came in short gasps. He turned down a narrow path. The shapes turned too. They were close now. He could hear them breathing. The boy clapped a hand over his mouth. He bit down on the cloth that held the coins. The coins sat on his tongue, cold and heavy. He ran on, but his legs were slowing. The path ended at a low wall. He climbed it and jumped down the other side. The shapes stopped at the wall. “We will find you,” said the limping one. Then they were gone, back into the dark. The boy crouched behind the wall. His heart hammered. He kept the coins in his mouth and did not move. He stayed there until the sky turned pink. Then he stood up and looked around. He was in a garden. A fountain played quietly in the middle. And by the fountain stood a lady with blue hair. She looked at him, and she smiled.

***

The lady with blue hair wore a plain grey dress. She held a small silver watering can. She looked at the boy over the rim of the fountain. “You have been running,” she said. “Your face is pale.”

He tried to speak, but his mouth was full. He turned away and spat the coins into his palm. The cloth was wet and the coins gleamed.

“Five gold pieces,” she said. “That is a lot for a boy your size. Where did you get them?”

He thought fast. The fox and the cat were gone, and no one else had seen. “I found them,” he said. “On the road. Just lying there.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, his nose itched. He rubbed it with the back of his hand. It kept itching. It grew longer, and longer still. He felt it push past his chin. He tried to look down at it, but his nose was in the way. He could not turn his head. His eyes crossed trying to see the tip.

“Oh,” said the lady. “That will happen.”

“What?” he said, but the word came out muffled. His nose was long enough to bump the fountain. He stepped back and it swung like a branch.

The lady set down her watering can. She did not laugh. She looked at him the way a gardener looks at a weed that might yet be a flower. “Do you want to try again?” she asked.

***

The boy stood in the garden with his nose as long as a broom. The fountain splashed. Birds sang in the hedge. He could not turn his head to see them. He could only look straight ahead, at the lady with blue hair.

“I lied,” he said. The words came out flat and small. “The coins came from a puppet show. I earned them. Then a fox and a cat told me to bury them in a field, and they would grow into a tree. They stole my dinner and chased me all night.”

His nose shrank. It pulled back to his face, inch by inch, like a rope being wound in. When it was done, he rubbed it. It felt normal again. His head could turn. He looked around the garden. It was a nice garden. There were roses and a stone bench and a path that led to a gate.

“The fox limped,” said the lady. “The cat said one word over and over. They do that. They have done it before, and they will do it again. The field they told you about grows nothing but weeds.”

“I know that now,” he said. He looked at the coins in his hand. “I wanted to be rich. I wanted to buy my father a new coat.”

“That is a good wish,” she said. “But lies grow faster than money. They grow right out of your face. You cannot hide them, and you cannot turn your head away from them.”

He nodded. He put the coins in his pocket. “I should go home,” he said. “My father will be worried.”

The lady picked up her watering can. “Go straight down this path,” she said. “It leads to the road. No more fields of miracles.”

He walked to the gate. Then he stopped and turned. “Thank you,” he said. “For not laughing.”

She smiled. “I have seen longer noses,” she said. “But not many that shrank so fast.”

He went out the gate and down the road. The sun was up. His nose was its own size. He kept his hand in his pocket, on the coins, and he did not stop until he saw the chimney of his father’s house.